


Til the End of the Line

by Ailorian



Category: Avengers, Marvel, Stucky - Fandom, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: (discussed), Death, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4999393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-off. Steve and Bucky (and Nat) deal with some consequences of impulsive reactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Til the End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> This was a role play I did on omegle - actually the first ever stucky role play I participated in that went more than five text messages. Despite my usually excellent archiving skills, I cannot locate the name or email address of the person I played it with. If you recognize this and want me to take it down or add you as an author, send me a message.

Don't even think about telling him about this, Romanov. JB

Natasha doesn't tell anyone anything. Wrong short-key, Buck. SR

I miss telegraphs. JB

The successful delivery rate is a bit higher now. SR

What's Nat not telling, anyway? SR

Nothing. JB

Doesn't seem like nothing. You ok? SR

Yeah. Mostly. JB

Alright. Well, I'm here if you need me. SR

Natasha is too, obviously. SR

You need to promise me something. JB

Of course. Anything. SR

Don't forgive me for what I'm about to tell you. JB

I don't understand. SR

Three people. JB

Three people... what? SR

Are dead. JB

[delayed] Why? SR

Wrong place, wrong time. BR

What happened? SR

One made the mistake of trying to bug me. JB

The other two were collateral. JB

Bucky.... SR

Please tell me 'bug' means 'plant a tracker' and not 'annoy'. SR

Will that make this better? JB

I don't know. SR

I'm not sorry. JB

[delayed] You're off missions for a while. Stay in the tower. Talk to Stark about getting set up for correspondence. SR

Understood. JB

[no reply]

I'm sorry that you're hurt. JB

I want a briefing before dark; every detail of the incident. SR

If you try to detain me, it won't work out for you. JB

You don't need to threaten me, Buck. Being part of the team means being subject to consequences too. All I expect right now is a yes sir. SR

Of course, sir, JB

Thank you. SR

Meet you on the rec floor in an hour? JB

I'll be there. SR

To say that Bucky was on edge was a veritable understatement. He didn't look up when Steve entered the meeting room, keeping his back ramrod straight and his gaze straight ahead. It was a matter of control, a matter of who would flinch first. Apologizing felt like losing, somehow. "So, how much paperwork is this gonna call for?"

Steve was still in his jogging suit, having decided to run as much of his -whatever, exactly, he was feeling at the moment- out as he could. Setting the small towel he had grabbed downstairs around the back of his neck, Steve leaned against the wall by the door, watching Bucky from across the room.

"How much paperwork does it take to replace lost lives?"

Bucky quirked an eyebrow at the question, the corner of his mouth ticking up in the barest hint of a humorless smile. He folded his hands together in front of him, metal and flesh, keeping his hands on the table. "Guess that really depends on the lives," he said. "Though that probably wasn't the answer you were lookin' for."

Keeping his expression neutral, Steve remained unmoving, knowing it was useless to respond to the careless dismissal now; after all the progress they had made together, though, it was really more disheartening than anything else. "Briefing." He demanded instead, his voice even and quiet. "Who, what, when, where, and why?"

"Last night, between 18:00 and 19:00, Glenwood and East 95th," Bucky replied evenly, voice devoid of any inflection that could imply discomfort. It was disconcerting, really, how easy it was to slip back into the flat apathy of a trained killer. "Don't know who they were, don't care. One, the tallest, was stupid enough to try and pinch my wallet. His friends tried to restrain me. It didn't work out well."

"So, you /killed/ three street thugs for an attempted mugging." Steve reiterated, emphasis on the word because he couldn't stop himself. All he wanted when Bucky went toneless was to push a reaction out of him, but that wasn't the way. "Which means three murder victims, possibly with evidence of an incredible beating, that the police are wasting time looking for, now, instead of some other investigation."

Bucky resolutely did not flinch at that, at the hard tone in Steve's voice and the disappointment that strained through. It cut up some deep, quiet part of him, but he made himself ignore the jarring guilt. "Please. I don't leave evidence," he said with a small roll of his eyes. "Natalia's called off any potential police investigation; the deaths will be listed as a car accident. This wasn't what you wanted to talk about, though, was it?"

Tempted as he was to cross his arms over his chest, or punch something, or arm-wrestle Banner, Steve made himself stay relaxed against the wall. Was it any better when Bucky was a sniper? Watching his back from the shadows and ending lives with a hollow point... He was right, that's not what Steve wanted to talk about at all. "Did you, at any point, lose control, forget yourself, act impulsively or on instinct?" Taking a deep breath, Steven fought the urge to swallow. "Did you revert back to y-" Oh fuck, he hesitated, jaw clenched. "Your previous /training/?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only indication that Steve's words had had any effect on him at all. Only people who knew what to look for, like Natalia or Barton, would take the minute movement for what it was: a flinch. "Fighting is about training and instinct," he said, the non-answer an admission enough. "People grabbing me without prior warning is listed on their list of triggers." It was a very long list.

"Fighting with the Avengers is about justice, and preservation of life." Steve countered immediately, almost not having to think of the words. "A list of triggers is not an excuse for loss of control." --not with the progress you've made, not with the care we take, what am I doing wrong-- "If I cannot expect pristine performance from you, whether on a mission or window shopping in Manhattan, then I cannot keep you in the field."

Shame rose like bile in the back of his throat, bitter and unrelenting, and it was enough to make Bucky grit his teeth. Steve was the only one who could do this, who could systematically break down every barrier between himself and the James Buchanan Barnes he'd once known. When Bucky let him, progress was easy. When he resisted? Well. People tended to die. "It was a statement of fact, not an excuse," he said, and he couldn't help the hard note that had entered his voice. It was the first sign of control slowly slipping. "And if you think I actually give a damn whether or not you revoke my field privileges, you're sadly misinformed."

"Good." Steve almost snapped in reply, losing patience with the conversation while his chest felt like it was caving in; fights -and that's precisely what they were- like this were /always/ hard with Bucky, who Steve could imagine was still walking a precarious perch of a line between American Sniper and Russian Assassin, while all he wanted was his friend to be okay. "Then I have no cause to be concerned about an argument when I tell you, you're grounded. No flight, no surveillance, no missions and no recon. You're going dark, domestic, nothing but eat shit shower until I say otherwise. Maybe Nat will lend you her Gameboy." Realizing his rationale was crumbling, Steve turned, yanking the door open perhaps too roughly and storming down the hall to drown himself in a hot shower.

Well. That went well. NR

Not up for discussion. SR

You're angry because I knew. NR

I trust you with my life, Nat. But I'm not sure I can trust you with him. That's all. SR

It's interesting to note that those two are practically synonymous. NR

What are you talking about? SR

You trust me with your life, but not his. That certainly says something about your priorities. NR

I don't trust anyone with his life. Including him. How can I when we're still dealing with civilian casualties, and /between/ missions. SR

He's a good soldier, and he knows better than this. SR

He's an excellent soldier who stopped being a good man a very long time ago. NR

He's trying, Steve. NR

He will always be a good man. I just need him to start making decisions like one again. SR

He didn't have to tell you, and he did anyways. Why? NR

Apparently because he missed your name and got mine when he sent the text. SR

He could have ignored it, and you know that. NR

I can almost taste the bush you're beating around. What's the point, Nat? SR

People like us are very good at running away. The fact that he didn't, Steve? The fact that he faced the consequences of his actions? That's progress, whether or not you choose to recognize it as such. NR

Glad to hear it. SR

Let me tell you something I heard more times in my life than any other phrase: There's a difference between making progress and meeting a standard. SR

I've given him a standard. It's up to him to reach it. SR

And if he doesn't? NR

Then he's retired. SR

You know it won't be that simple. NR

It will be as simple as I can make it. SR

Bucky is my friend, I brought him here, I made him an Avenger. That makes him, and all his actions, my responsibility. I can't let him kill someone every time they bump his elbow. SR

I'm also not going to have him put down like some feral dog. SR

That would be easiest. NR

No. It really wouldn't. SR

Why not? A sedative and a bullet. Simple. NR

Don't even think about it. Please. SR

He's a liability. NR

He's my friend, and I won't hear any further suggestions like that. SR

Did you think to ask what set him off? NR

I did ask. They tried to take his wallet; a set of fake ID's and pocket cash. SR

Interesting. He didn't tell you. NR

Can we pretend for five minutes that we actually tell each other everything? SR

You take all the fun out of life. NR

None of this is fun, Nat. Just tell me what he didn't tell me. SR

Here's what I do know: there was one witness to the incident, a fifty four year old Italian immigrant that watched the altercation from his living room window. NR

Promise me the witness is still alive. SR

Ask me no questions, Captain. Said that Barnes disarmed his attackers and began to walk away, wallet in hand, when one of them shouted something at his retreating back. It was then that he snapped. NR

It wasn't a question. SR

Shouted something at him? SR

The man's English was broken at best. He didn't catch it. NR

What could a punk kid on the street possibly shout to make /Bucky/ kill three strangers? SR

You know him better than I do. NR

Apparently not well enough. SR

It was impossible to punch a sandbag and reply to Natasha's lightning-fast messages that pinged twice every time he ignored them for half a minute. Despite the intention of a shower, Steve had wound up in some corner of the tower, not quite a workout room but with a beam thick enough to hold 200 pounds. Wiping both hands down his face, Steve took deep breaths, glad to have finally exhausted himself. Only a few minutes later, he was on the dormitory floor, where everyone had their own bedroom of choice, with enough space between them to keep peace. Bucky's room was beside his, the only one with a door between them - although it was actually a short hallway with the closets - but Steve still went to the hall door and knocked, not knowing whether it was out of courtesy or cowardice. At least if he got rejected in the hall he could save face by not being locked out of his own closet.

There was something therapeutic about doing maintenance on his arm, a fact that his shrink would have a goddamn field day with if he knew. It was precision work with delicate robotics, a task that required him to narrow his focus down to a single point. Bucky's hands had been trained into steadiness, his eyes conditioned to look for flaws and imperfections. As much as it was artificial, the metal was a part of him, simultaneously reminding him of everything he'd ever hated and everything he'd ever loved about himself. He liked repairing it. "I'm really not in a talking mood, Natalia. You owe me an explanation," Bucky said in Russian, arm half disengaged from his shoulder socket and laid out in his lap. He paused when the immediate response didn't filter through. Great. The only other person who ever actually visited this room was- "Steve. Did you want to collect an official statement or somethin'? Thought I needed a lawyer for that."

Hesitating, Steve listened to the Russian syllables, more interested in Bucky's tone -since it seemed his guard wasn't on maximum setting outside of their 'briefing'- and unable to decipher much beyond Natasha's name. After a brief pause, he heard Bucky speak again, his pitch lower -angry or upset, apparently just having to say Steve's name. The blond sighed quietly, staring at the floor when the door remained resolutely shut, and the sounds of movement inside weren't getting any closer; so Bucky was fiddling with something and not letting him in. Only with Bucky was Steve actually /uncertain/ -and, more importantly, scared to be wrong- about whether confrontation would be better than a soft approach. As the (practically, self appointed) leader of the Avengers, Steve could not let his feelings (whatever they may be) for Bucky to get in the way of his good judgement.

"Are you going to give me all the actual details in an official statement?" Steve asked instead, going somewhat confrontational; both bridging the issue and avoiding the hassle of trying to answer a rhetorical question.

Oh, that bitch. Bucky couldn't be one hundred percent certain that Natalia was directly involved in this, but if someone was screwing around in his life, there was at least a thirty percent chance that it was her. This had her prints all over it- just the right amount of manipulation and violence to keep things interesting. He huffed a sigh from between clenched teeth and tucked the screwdriver behind his ear before getting up to unlock the door. Shirtless with his hair tied back and a useless arm dangling at his side, Bucky was sure that the flat stare he levelled at Steve wasn't nearly as intimidating as he wanted it to be.

"I told you what happened," he said, the barest hint of annoyance lacing his words. Why was Steve physically incapable of letting things lie where they may? "I snapped, people suffered. Doctor Banner and I have had fantastic talks about control, y'know. Poor bastard's a genius."

Almost against his will, Steve's gaze flickered down Buck's half exposed body the moment the door opened, mostly checking for wounds automatically. It was a rare thing, even after all this time, to see Bucky's hair out of his face, and Steve dwelled in the moment for a few heartbeats when he met annoyed blue eyes. The screwdriver and limp limb gave him some idea of how his friend was occupying himself. Taking a slow breath, Steve nodded at the last remark, tucking his hands into his pocket as a mild show of placation.

"The reason /why/ you snapped seems to remain in question." Steve mentioned simply, not precisely interested in immediately pointing a finger at Natasha. Especially since he had just told this man that a list of triggers was not an excuse to lose control at all. Still, dealing with what they knew was better than floundering in ignorance, and maybe knowing the list would make those conversations about control that much more pointed and effective.

Bucky held Steve's gaze for a long moment, looking for pity and finding none. He didn't know why he was surprised. Steve Rogers would bleed for James Barnes, but he refused him the luxury of pity, of a shield to hide behind. That, if nothing else, was something to be grateful for. He stepped back from the door wordlessly and manoeuvred his arm back into his lap as he sat. The invitation was an admission of trust as much as it was an apology, and he found himself loathing the way the air was suddenly thick with all the things that had been left unsaid.

"Thought you said you weren't lookin' for excuses," he said at last, the words slightly mumbled around an allen key balanced between his lips like a cigarette. He hovered over his elbow joint, squinting and dancing his fingers along the metal there- looked like a Stark upgrade was in his near future. "But I told you. They took my wallet. Pretty clear cut case, if you ask me."

"I'm not asking in an investigative manner." Steve told him earnestly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, though it didn't feel right to do more than stand, and he settled himself against the wall beside the closet door that separated their rooms, trying to relax against the painted plaster. Here, Bucky was facing him, even if his attention was (visibly, but not literally) entirely on his task.

"I'm asking as your friend." Steve added, his tone resolute. "I've got a witness that says you were walking away, wallet in hand, and were taunted back to violence." Swallowing, Steve pinched his mouth into a tight line, trying not to fidget, though he was worried. "I want to know what a street thug could say that would upset you that much."

Yeah, okay, Natasha could officially go to hell. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having with his left arm lying in his lap. Bucky didn't respond, letting the silence stretch out, but Steve was a patient bastard. Short of kicking him out of the room, there wasn't a way to get out of this. He tightened another bolt and tested the joint, chewing on his lower lip. "I disarmed them and then walked away," he said lowly, voice strung tight with a dull anger. "I was- I was fuckin' proud of myself that I didn't just finish the job on impulse."

Lately, it had been getting easier to distance himself from his training and the need for an objective- Steve hadn't been lying when he said that they had been making progress. When Bucky fought alongside the Avengers, there were still brief moments where it was a little too easy to sink into the rhythm of senseless violence, moments where he forgot that there were people on the other end of a comm line putting their trust in him. The words come out in the shape of a sigh. "Maybe he saw the arm, maybe he was just saying the first bullshit thing that came into his head, doesn't matter." He faltered, fingers curling around the screwdriver in a vice grip. "He called me a freak. A monster. Guess I wanted to prove how right he was."

Listening in silence, Steve worked a little to keep his expression smooth, his fingers curling in his pockets, a mixture of sorrow and fury - not really in reaction to what had happened, but to the look on Bucky's face while he recounted it. At least as a commander, Steve had been able to ride a sort of wave of righteous anger and adrenaline while he listed the measures he wanted taken to avoid a repeat. It wasn't meant to be a rolled up newspaper across the nose, it was supposed to be as much about giving Bucky time to regroup as it was to make sure they could prevent it from happening again - whether as a team, as a duo, or by Bucky's sole effort. Now, listening to those words come out of his best friends mouth, his voice strained and entire body tense like a rubber band ready to snap, Steve felt like his chest was going to implode.

"You're not a freak." Steve murmured after a few moments in silence. "And you're not a monster. And you don't need to prove anything to anyone." Suddenly even the polite distance was too much, and Steve took two strides before turning and dropping down beside Bucky, making sure their shoulders and elbows touched, skin to skin, while the metal arm remained in his lap. "I don't like bullies, and I can't ever ask you to run away from a fight, when we both know I won't." His voice was soft, and Steve let it, releasing all the control because he needed Bucky to hear how much he couldn't say with words. "You can't let them get to you. There will always be bullies, but you can't let them make you that monster. You can't let them drag you down to their level."

And Bucky thought- he couldn't be sure, because there were holes in his memory and it'd only been two years since he stopped being a machine, but he thought that this was the way they had always been. Steve would come home bruised and bloodied from some fight he'd had no business being in, and Bucky would see red while trying to patch up the worst of it. Now, Steve was the one who was trying to put him back together again, but Bucky couldn't even brush shoulders with the man without jerking away. He closed his eyes, forced himself to relax. The sense of failure was nearly overwhelming.

"Do you even hear yourself right now, Steve?" He asked, refusing to look up as he began screwing the panel just above the crook of his elbow back into place. Only someone who was looking for it would notice the faint tremble in his hand. There was resignation in those words, a grim set to his mouth. "I killed three people last night in cold blood. Those people had families and friends and jobs that they will never see again, all because I couldn't control myself. But the thing is, if I feel guilty about it, it's only because this hurt you. What part of that isn't monstrous?" His voice turned quiet, bitter. "I'm not the victim here. Stop pretending that I am."

There had been enough flinching over the years that Steve felt almost numb to the small ache in his chest, focused on bigger things, knowing that the little ones were road signs that he needed to at least notice. He didn't have time to feel sorry for himself when he should be focusing on his friend, whom he had promised to protect, and never leave behind.

"You're not the victim." Steve murmured in answer. "The fact of the matter is, you /were/ a /tool/, shaped and used for the purpose that your handlers chose, for a very long time." His tone had gone cold while he stared straight ahead, trying to make the point as clear as possible, though it remained a statement of fact, rather than Steve's visage of his greatest and oldest friend.

"There was a long time when you did not, could not make decisions; we both know the lengths they went to in eliminating any thought or desire that didn't serve their purpose. Now, you have to make every single one." Turning his head, Steve tilted his chin a bit, meeting Bucky's gaze sidelong. "You have to decide to wake up, feed and dress yourself, wash and arm and fix yourself. You have to decide to follow my direction, to go on missions, to fight alongside people that you have to choose to trust, to defend people you have to choose to ignore when they are ungrateful, and unworthy. I am in no way validating what you did for name calling."

Steve paused, taking a deep breath and setting it on his friend’s knee, if only because that was the easiest way to make extra contact without trapping him by an arm around the shoulders.

"As your commander, I will never be able to /dismiss/ what happened, what you /did/. You'll serve the recompense I've spelled out. Natasha, it seems has dealt with the rest." Softening his tone a little, Steve lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "As your friend, I want you to know that I'm doing everything in my power to understand, not just what but why, because you have to make all those decisions, but it's my responsibility to argue or get your back. There will never be a day when I refuse to do either."

Steve Rogers' patience was a universal constant. Bucky had once found that fact infuriating, constantly suppressing the urge to take the man by the shoulders and shake some common sense into that thick skull of his. Now? Now, it was with resignation that he surveyed his friend, gaze sharp and assessing. The hand on his knee weighed a hundred pounds.

The problem was, of course, that Steve was right- even after all these years, autonomy was still somewhat of a foreign concept. It had taken months to get used to speaking without being first spoken to, a year to shake the habit of sleeping fully clothed. There were days when he had to remind himself that he was allowed to eat, that hunger wasn't some abstract concept to be ignored until the mission was complete. There was no mission. On those days, Bucky barely tasted his food, eating as though he expected the meal to be taken away from him at any moment. Steve called those small improvements progress. Natasha gave him a gun that was easier to hide underneath his pillow.

"Steve the commander is an awful lot easier to deal with. It's harder to deal with when you're so.. you." He huffed out a resigned little laugh and shook his head, the taut line of his shoulders betraying the apparent nonchalance of the comment. The thing was that Steve saw the world as black and white, as right and wrong, while Bucky had lived the past seventy years in shades of grey and bright splashes of red. For Steve, there were very few people that could not be redeemed. For Bucky, redemption wasn't even an option.

"Then again, if you weren't, I probably wouldn't see much of a point in trying." Bucky only let himself hesitate for a moment before he slipped his hand, flesh and blood and warm and real, over Steve's. The contact seared his skin. "Don't know if that's actually a bad thing or not, but- thanks. Never said that before. Thanks."

Resisting the urge to squeeze Bucky's knee - muscles so tight, Steve could practically feel them refusing to tremble - or to rub his thumb or fingers or palm in some comforting circle, the blond maintained his grip, a carefully measured grip that didn't inhibit or trap. He couldn't make himself look away from Bucky's profile, though, watching every moment of passive expression flicker with the barest hints of what the idiot was trying so hard to hide. Steve felt like he was watching a shadow puppet show, where the shapes didn't quite make sense and the voices failed all sense of consistency. Watching Bucky laugh - even the apparently forced surrender that echoed in the sound - was more than Steve could resist. His chest ached with the knowledge that falling back on the idea that this was a victory would be his downfall as much as Bucky's; Steve would fail and fail him again because he was so desperate for Bucky to be alright, to go back to normal, to go back to /then/. It wasn't stupid, or blissfully ignorant, or blind, Steve told himself over and over; it was faith. But how far, exactly, would that ever get them?

It was certainly moments like this, Steve thought, that convinced him faith was all he needed. Faith in Bucky, and faith in himself, and faith in the team. Perhaps he owed Natasha an apology as well.

"Til the end of the line." Steve murmured, floundering on how to accept Bucky's thanks. Not that he had never had it, but Bucky was right, he hadn't said it in a long time, and it meant a whole new world of difference. It ached in a way that was almost pleasant, and Steve felt his eyes sting as he lifted his hand from Bucky's knee, dropping his arm across the brunet's shoulders. They didn't touch much anymore, either, he noticed, mostly to fight, to train. Sometimes Bucky tolerated a pat on the back after a mission. Draping his arm now, Steve remembered a day when Bucky was a head taller, his arm strong around Steve's small shoulders, cocky smile and low tenor trying to talk some sense into him, and Steve wondered if he could ever be that strong for Bucky, that right, that brave. Damned if he wouldn't try.


End file.
